May Cause Dizziness
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: Just assorted stand-alones about the dynamics of the two Bishop men.
1. Figlio, Figlio Perduto

**  
TITLE:**  _"Figlio__, __Figlio Perduto"_

**PAIRING:**  _Walter/Peter's Mother_

**CHARACTERS:**  _Walter Bishop, Peter Bishop, Peter's Mother_

**GENRE:**  _Angst_

**RATING:**  _PG-13_

**CHALLENGE:**  _None_

**WORD COUNT:**  _1009_

**WARNINGS:**  _None_

**SPOILERS:**  _reference to an event that Walter talked about in 1.10_

**DISCLAIMER: **_None_

* * *

"_Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?"_

* * *

Walter cradles the lifeless form of his son in his arms. He's sitting on a hospital bed, his shoulders and head resting in the corner where the two hospital room walls meet. The boy is dressed in his favourite "jammies", the ones with fighter jets on them and he has an IV leading into his wrist, keeping him hydrated. His son's empty eyes look up towards him and Walter sees a drying track of spittle trailing out the side of his mouth.

The now-dark hospital room is decorated with a mural of puppies chasing butterflies and space rockets leaving rainbow-coloured exhaust trails across the ceiling among gold-foiled stars, definitely created to make a child feel more comfortable in this sterile environment. The room is warm, but he feels cold, unsure if it's from fear or something more. The boy is just as unresponsive as he always is but as his father, Walter resumes the duty he has assigned himself of keeping him company.

He hasn't looked at a clock in hours, but he estimates it's around two in the morning. He feels numb, not tired, not worn out, but numb and he wonders if it's from the lack of sleep that he can see a double of himself lurking just out of the corner of his eye. Six days he's been awake, six solid unending eternities that he has spent unable to solve the problem, so he has temporarily abandoned his research to care for the sun of his self-centered universe. Walter's voice is barely above a whisper as he begins to recite the same epic he has been repeating for nearly an hour.

"_Who rides so late through the night and wind?__ The __f__ather and son, we ride together__ on a horse through __walls of wind__ and __night has fallen. __He has the boy safe in his arm, He holds him secure, he holds him warm. __But suddenly__the boy trembles__ with fear and it becomes cold. _

'_My son, what makes you hide your face in fear?' he asks, to which the boy replies,_

'_Father, __oh father,__ don't you see the Erlenkönig? The Erlenkönig with crown and flowing robe?'_

'_My son, it's a wisp of fog.'_

'_Lost son__,' __the __Erlenkönig__ speaks, 'Do you want to play?__I'll bring you joy__. __You dear child, come along with me! Such lovely games I'll play with you; many colorful flowers are at the shore and you shall have many golden garments.'_

'_My father, my father, and do you not hear what the Erlenkönig promises me so softly?'_

'_Be quiet, stay quiet, my child; in the dry leaves the wind is rustling.'_

'_Won't you come along with me, my fine boy?' the Erlenkönig hisses. 'My daughters shall attend to you so nicely. My daughters do their nightly dance, and they'll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep.'_

'_My father, my father, and do you not see over there, Erlenkönig's daughters in that dark place?'_

'_My son, my son, I see it most definitely: it is the willow trees looking so grey.'_

'_Lost son__,' the Erlenkönig cries, 'I will have you; I'm charmed by your beautiful form; come to me and if you're not willing, I'll use force.'_

_The boy says, '__Father, oh father__, __did you hear__what he said__and what he will do? Father, oh father,__the __Erlenkönig__is reaching for me!__My father, my father, now he's grabbing hold of me! The Erlenkönig has done me harm!'_

_And the boy's__eyes closed,__he doesn't move,__he's already lost__…__he's already lost. __The father shudders, he rides swiftly, He holds in his arms the moaning child. He reaches the farmhouse with effort and urgency. In his arms…_" Walter pauses, unable to look at his son's colourless face. "_The child was dead._"

"Stop singing that horrible _song_, god dammit!" someone sobs and Walter looks up to see Peter's mother standing in the doorway of the hospital room. "What is _**wrong**_ with you?"

She is gaunt, looking like a spectral lurking there in vigilance over their son. Her cheeks and eyes are sunken in and her sallow skin is lined with tear tracks. She has a slight tremour in her movements and as she moves into the room, hesitant stumbling, she points a bony finger towards them, a silent order for him to put the boy down. Lovingly, tenderly, he lays the child back into his bed, tucking the hospital bed sheets around him. The boy's lifeless eyes are still open and Walter carefully uses his finger to shut the lids.

By now, Peter's mother has reached him, her hands grasp onto his upper arm and he realises that she has little strength to hold herself up. Together they gaze down at their son and they begin to weep again, though Walter has the strength to lead them out of the room.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" she pleads in the empty hospital hallway, her hair hanging around her face, something he's not used to—normally it's pulled back in a professional manner and after years of begging her to wear it down, he wishes she'd pin it back, because that would mean everything was normal and fine.

"I am trying to move heaven and Earth for him!" he cries, moving the stray hair out of her face. "I don't know what to look for…I'm so sorry!"

"Please, Walter! _Please_! You have to save Peter! Anything!" She looks frantic as she grips onto his arms with those spindly fingers. "I'll get your whatever you need, even if someone must die for it!"

"I don't know…"

She buries her face into his neck and she feels so fragile, so weak and he's afraid that if he can't protect her how can he protect his little boy.

Her voice quivers slightly, almost inaudible. "If Peter doesn't get better…"

He strokes her head, hopping it's a comforting manner and his tears are falling into her hair. "I _will_ move heaven and Earth for him. Peter _will_ get better. I'll save him, I _promise_."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**  _written because Walter's love for Peter is probably the Fringe storyline I'm most interested in. Yes, that's over the scienze, the Oliver shipping, the Walstrid shipping, the hotness of the Observer, and the hotness of John Scott. They could cut everything else out and as long as they kept the development of their fractured relationship in, I'd be good._

_And the story Walter was singing was essentially "Figlio Perduto"/"Dalai Lama", both songs based on "Erlenkönig" by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (google it, children). What a macabre thing to sing to a child, bet it really freaked Peter's mom out D:_

_Italian:__ "Figlio, figlio perduto" – "Son, lost son" _

_German:__ "Erlenkönig" – "Elf King" (but I've also seen it spelt Erlkönig, so correct me if I'm wrong)_

_German:__ "Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?" – "Who rides so late through the night and wind?_

(if my languages are wrong, correct me!!!)


	2. Love, A Devastating Disease

**TITLE:**  _"__Love, a Devastating Disease"_

**PAIRING:** _mention of  Walter/Peter's Mother_

**CHARACTERS:**  _Walter Bishop, Peter Bishop, Peter's Mother_

**GENRE:**  _Angst_

**RATING:**  _PG-13_

**SUMMARY:**  _The few memories Peter has of childhood aren't pleasant._

**CHALLENGE:**  _None_

**WORD COUNT:**  _806_

**WARNINGS:**  _None_

**SPOILERS:**  _reference to an event that Walter talked about in 1.10_

**DISCLAIMER: **_not mine_

* * *

Walter wasn't the only of the Bishop duo to have used a closet as a safe place. Peter couldn't always remember portions of his childhood—in fact, he could hardly remember the majority of his life before the age of thirteen—but in the recent weeks since he had become Walter's guardian, little flickers of memories had began to surface. In the dark of night, he'd leave Walter sleeping in the bed and lock himself in the bathroom, huddled in the bathtub. He'd bring his knees up to his chest and rock back and forth, trying to push down the bile that burned the back of his throat. He wasn't recalling birthdays or new bikes or first days at school, but strange sinister feelings that he had no context to judge them on.

_He was eight, crouched between pairs of tennis shoes and old toys in his bedroom's closet. He was in there because it was safe, and he was crying into his knees trying to be a quiet as he could manage because Mom had left the house for the morning and that meant he was home alone with Daddy. The closet was dark and he was afraid of the spiders that might come crawling across him, but those little fears didn't compare to the dread that had him in near hysterics. _

_Someone was in his bedroom! _

_He could hear the creak of the floor's doorway!_

_Peter stopped breathing, his eyes moving to the closed closet door. He knew who was in the bedroom and could almost picture the slow movements his father was making as he entered the very boy themed room. He could smell the chocolate chip cookies that he had brought with him, obviously trying to lure him out from where ever he was._

"_Peter? Peter, are you here?"_

_Peter didn't dare shut his eyes, afraid that if he didn't keep constant watch of the door, his father would find him. He could hear the soft footsteps of his father moving over by the bed and the rustle of sheets, then creaking the boards by the window. Peter had always been baffled that a man with his IQ, someone who spent his life hiding things never considered checking the closet, never put two and two together._

"_Son?" his father would offer one last time before the footsteps would leave the bedroom, off to investigate the rest of the house. _

_Peter would let out a shuddering breath. Hours would pass, but he'd still remain on constant guard because Walter could be back at any moment. _

Peter still hated candy and sugar because it was what someone used to trick you. He didn't know what closet hiding had meant, but it was the only way to stay safe and it was the first place his mind went to when he was in trouble, even thought all his experience told him that that was the first place people looked. The bathtub was cold and he had drawn the shower curtain as an extra wall between him and Walter's snoring.

_He was six and the teacher had everyone in his class write about the person they looked up to, who they wanted to grow up to be. Of course he had picked his father, the person he loved the most in this world. All of the children had read the one page papers at the front of the classroom on back to school night and he had been so proud with himself as his father stood there beaming, Mommy standing at his side. He didn't mention that sometimes Daddy played games that made him throw up for hours afterwards or made his eyes bleed, because Daddy loved him and always said that he hadn't meant for it to happen. And Mommy had taught him that you were supposed to forgive someone when they said they were sorry._

Peter was gasping for air, pulling the bath towel he had wrapped himself in tighter. Why was it so cold?

_For some reason this afternoon he couldn't use the closet as the safe spot, so in his moment of panic he had chosen the space between his bed and his dresser. He was out in the open and completely vulnerable as he cried in fear. He could hear his father come into the room, calling out his name in that quiet, eerie way he did. Peter sniffled too loudly and the footsteps turned towards where he was. The ambrosiac smell of a root beer float lingered heavily in the air, suffocating. His father towered over him, a pleased smile on his face, seemingly oblivious to his tears._

"_There you are, my son. Come, I have a game for us." _

Peter thought that crying was a weakness, so he felt like a failure as he sobbed quietly into his knees, still huddled in the bathtub.

* * *

**A/N:** because we totally know that Peter suffered from that Battered Person Syndrome


	3. Children are God's Gift

**TITLE:**  _"__Children are God's Gift"_

**PAIRING:**  _None_

**CHARACTERS:**  _Walter Bishop, Peter Bishop (mention), St. Claire inmates, St. Claire staff_

**GENRE:**  _Angst, craziness_

**RATING:** _M for sexual references_

**SUMMARY:**  _Sometime Walter thought his son was more than just a boy…_

**CHALLENGE:** _None_

**WORD COUNT:**  _1141_

**WARNINGS:**  _None_

**SPOILERS:**  _None_

**DISCLAIMER:**_ Duh._

* * *

"_I write you letters by the thousands in my thoughts."_

_-Beethoven_

* * *

He spread the butterscotch pudding across the tray, an even coating of tan smoothness across green textured plastic. He was the only one here at this table because everyone was afraid of how powerful he was, afraid of how much power he held—he could crush them all with one LOOK!

The other inmates, residents, live-ins were all watching him from a safe distance. Some curious, some concerned, they were all afraid of him—as they should be. He dragged his long index finger as though it were a precious scalpel, cutting divots in the pudding until they formed a name. This was the name that God took, holy like the hand, holy like the seraphim.

P.

E.

T.

E.

R.

"HIS NAME IS PETER AND HE IS THE GREATEST SON ANYONE COULD ASK FOR," he shouted at Weston whom was slowly inching his way towards the table, his eyes intent on the pudding.

"Peter! Peter! Peter!" Weston screamed fearfully as he retreated back to the crowd of nervous bodies.

Walter pointed his finger at the whole of them, making them draw back and flinch at the sight of his threatening manner. "Worship him, he who was sent to this earth to save the human race! He is the only name thou shalt speak, thou shalt utter, thou shalt hear! Repent, for Peter, Son of Man, shall not save thee who is an unbeliever, nonbeliever, wide receiver! You who doubt the word of his messenger shall feel the fiery wrath of the Beast of SCIENCE!"

"Jesus Christ!" someone yelled nervously, challenging him.

Walter climbed onto the table top, holding the tray above his head. "I have created Peter of my own seed, an undeniable proof that he is the saviour to which you heathens must bow. He is the blood, the bread of which shall feed the world! Salivate at the thought of your salvation! Peter is He Who Walks Among Us! He is mortal man, a mighty tower of chromosomes, a sapling to become a tree! He knows the alphabet of which your names are all birthed from! He is the mighty wind to blow the chaff from the grain! Lower your heads in the presence of Science's greatest miracle, for behold, I have created life! Your genetics are all inferior to his! Grovel before his mighty name!"

One of St. Claire's resident nurse-cum-bastards parted the crowd like the Red Sea and drawled, "Walter, get off the table."

Walter was not going to take orders from this towheaded demon. "Peter is a lion whose teeth will tear you limb from limb. Your sinful blood shall paint the halls of his mighty palace—"

"Walter, I am not going to tell you again. Get off the table," the man repeated.

"Peter is a flood who shall drown those whose do not worship his almighty image, those who kneel at the golden calf of Bell. He sha—"

The orderly sighed and motioned for the other Scrubs to approach. "Okay, Walter. If you want to do it the hard way, I guess we'll do it the hard way."

"Transgressions!" he screamed, throwing the tray at them, hoping to gain himself some extra time while he spread the Truth.

The quacks however were much faster and more organised that last time, getting him off the table violently and into a straight jacket.

Walter kicked and thrashed, belting out a song he had managed to compose in the moment. "O wayward son! So you shall find your way back home! I shall welcome you with open arms! And you'll never be alone! Son! Son! Come back to me! And I'll make you a fine home!"

He blocked out the sound of Ronald squawking and of Charles crying hysterically at the disorder he had created. Good. They ought know what they had coming to them. Peppers, who was here because he enjoyed tearing small animals apart, was crouched on the floor over the tray, licking at the pudding. Walter was furious that his son, his saviour's name was being defiled in such a manner.

"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!" he roared, struggling in the grasp of these imbeciles.

A needle slipped into his neck, on the right side, and he arched slightly in the restraints, relishing in the pinch the syringe created and the feeling of a new fluid being introduced into his blood stream. His body began to relax and he could feel himself being dragged to his room.

These drugs were _sooooooooooooooo_ pleasurable, which was why he never complained when he was given them, even if it meant he was going to be locked in his room. Today he was in the straight jacket though, so he couldn't enjoy them in his usual fashion. He had been placed on his bed by the strong nurses, who had just as quickly left as they had come. The mattress he had become so accustomed to was hard and made his shoulder sore if he lay on his side too long and the bed sheets no longer smelled of the harsh detergent but of his own skin. He struggled against the confines of the restraint, biting his pillow as he let out a frustrated moan. His heart wasn't into the action this afternoon so he finally gave up, allowing the sleepy side of the bliss take over.

The room was quiet and he slowly relaxed his breathing, meditating so that his heart would relax as well. His mind spun slowly, a heavenly sphere sliding down a golden spiral…he could smell the butterscotch pudding that had ended up in the course hair of his beard. His eyes wandered dreamily around the room until they landed on a visitor he hadn't been expecting.

"How long have you been here?" he murmured, slightly embarrassed for not having noticed his guest earlier

The boy sat quietly in the corner by the door, his eyes a green fire. The small wooden top on the floor before him spun faster and faster, a faint whirring noise created as it moved across the sealed cement. Walter's forced his heavy eyelids to remain open, focusing on the emerald inferno that seemed to get brighter.

"Sweet darling boy, I'll hang your cradle from the crescent of the moon. I'll harvest all the silver stars, and string them to a loon," he sang softly, hoping to lure the child closer. There were still so many tests that he wanted to perform. "I'll move the sun, and the Milky Way…count all the sand and stalks of hay. I'll cut open the dark with a golden sickle, an iron hammer, and silver nickel. I'll save you from the mighty storm…I'll bring you…I'll bring you…"

His eyes shut and he was left with the whisper of the spinning top.


	4. Flying Kites

**TITLE:**  _Flying Kites_

**PAIRING:** _Peter/ofc_

**CHARACTERS:**  _Peter Bishop, Walter Bishop (mention), Peter's Mother (mention), Peter's Maternal Aunt, Peter's Maternal Uncle_

**GENRE:**  _Angst_

**RATING:**  _PG-13_

**SUMMARY:**  _Peter tries not to think of certain people during his high school graduation_

**CHALLENGE:**  _None_

**WORD COUNT:** _ 471_

**WARNINGS:**  _language, suggested adult themes_

**SPOILERS:**  _none_

**DISCLAIMER: **_not mine_

* * *

Peter sat in the bleachers the high school janitors had put up on the auditorium stage. He was sandwiched between Trevor Davis and Maggie Green, one of whom smelled like provolone and the other smelled like too much warm amber. He was in a very sour mood this evening, though he didn't expect anything different for his graduation. Honestly, anything in his life that was supposed to be important always ended up bunk, falling flat on its face.

His gown was a stuffy polyester, slippery material that was supposed to look like satin, but ended up just feeling cheap and stupid.

'_What a waste of money,' _he thought bitterly, wishing he had spent the sixty bucks on that fake ID he'd needed.

Oh well, there were going to be plenty of drunk kids at Ray's party tonight and none of them would be watching their wallets, so that sixty bucks would be easily recovered. Not that he planned on being a career criminal.

There was a blonde in the front, Blanca, who kept glancing back up at him. She was pretty and he gave her a quick smile before returning his attention back to the crowd. He liked girls that could have a good time, ones that knew how to hold their alcohol. Blanca was that kind of girl. Sure, she had made it clear she was willing to do a lot of nasty things with him on her living room couch, but she could hold a decent conversation. Maybe it wasn't as intellectual as he might have hoped, but at least she used proper grammar. Yeah, you could call the kinds of girls he picked "whores", he supposed. But the smart, down to earth woman he truly searched for didn't exist. They simply didn't!

He scanned the crowd and believed he had spotted his aunt and uncle, but he couldn't be one hundred percent sure. As expected, Mom wasn't here and obviously _Walter_ wasn't either.

_Walter_.

Even when he thought of the name it came out as a sneer, an oily, mordant utterance that he wished he'd never known. Peter outright, blatently hated the man—Walter could rot in St. Claire's for all he cared. Which he didn't.

He was tired, hungry, and bored. The gown was hot and under these lights he felt like one of the cafeteria's mystery meats sitting under a heat lamp. His chest and stomach were perspiring and he could feel the rivets of sweat rolling down his back. _Gross_.

The grey shirt he was wearing underneath was a present he'd bought himself at the local print shop—he'd had a large "FUCK YOU" emblazoned on the front in blood red. It was nice to have it on, a secret message that he wished he could say to everyone here.

And especially to the people that weren't.


End file.
